


To Be Romantic

by Autumn_Llleaves



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon Compliant, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-18 16:29:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3576174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Autumn_Llleaves/pseuds/Autumn_Llleaves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Only fools want to be romantic in the Seven Kingdoms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Be Romantic

Only fools want to be romantic in the Seven Kingdoms. 

Sandor Clegane learned it too early, when his brother pressed his face on the burning coals. As he cried and struggled, the blasted toy, the wooden knight that started it all, was crushed beneath his boot. 

Sandor never wanted another one in his life. Never wanted toys. 

Only fools can be romantic. He killed and drank and occasionally whored, but when left to himself he yearned for someone to look him in the eye. Straight. 

Only fools have such thoughts. 

He never pretended he wasn't one. 

The only person to look at him straight was Prince Joffrey. He could look at worse sights unfaltering. He cut apart a pregnant cat and watched the kittens fall outside. No wonder he was never afraid to meet his sworn shield's eye. 

It brought Sandor no joy. 

Then there was Winterfell, cold and gray. Lord Stark's family lined up like criminals for beheading, only to greet King Robert. 

Stark's elder daughter. Sansa. So young, radiant with joy, and so beautiful. Her big blue eyes, gazing at the visitors. 

Sandor became even more of a fool since then. He had wanted her to look with these sweet eyes at _him_. Yes, just so. Her, Joffrey's betrothed. 

He despised himself a thousand times more than he already did when he soon realized he wanted more than her look. Only fools can be romantic, he reminded himself and went to the Street of Silk and the nearest redhead slut. It brought only bits and pieces of relief to his body, yet did nothing to calm his soul's turmoil. 

A rabid killer dog can't have a soul. 

He tried so hard to hate the girl. Even after her father's execution she remained a fool, apparently believing she could eventually chirp away every misfortune. Chirping, singing, like a little bird. He took to calling her that. 

He was more of a fool than her, and he bloody knew it. 

Why did he save her from one beating or another, when she was destined to endure it forever anyway?

Why did he have to cut through the rioting crowd towards the familiar glint of red hair? Red, like flames, his worst fear…

He came to her bedchamber on the night of that dreadful wildfire battle. Why? He didn't know for sure. A part of him had wished to take her, at last, after months of frustrated longing, to taste her pink lips and tear her damned innocence away. Another part wanted to listen to her voice the last time before leaving or dying. But what infuriated him most of all was that he wished to rescue her from King's Landing. What's more, he had actually hoped for her to go with him. 

He was outraged with himself later, as he rode Stranger farther and farther away from King's Landing. He thought he had long forgotten such senseless romantic musings. Forgotten, crashed, when his face was stuck into the flames. 

Now the flames of the little bird's hair seemed to revive all this idiocy. 

Sandor hated himself for wanting her. For hurting her. Most of all, for leaving her.

He just had to drag the wolf-bitch, her sister, across the whole continent – why? Robb Stark had hardly any gold to spare, especially for the dog of the Lannisters. Lysa Arryn would have never rewarded him with riches. Why, then, all this mess with that thrice-damned Arya Stark? He told himself about gold, over and over, but deep down he knew. _You wanted to win favor with the little bird's family. Imbecile. Romantic imbecile. As if they would ever let her marry you. You listened to her songs too much_.

As he lay feverish on the Trident, with no one but his horse for company, he thought of her. He remembered the softness of her hand and longed to hold it one last time before he died.

He didn't die, however. He cursed himself again for it. He couldn't even die like he deserved; it showed how pathetic a being he was. 

Life on the Quiet Isle soothed him a bit, quieted the bloodlust, stopped him from constant cursing… the words of the little bird's only song _for him_ echoed in his mind. 

When Aegon Targaryen's troops landed in the Stormlands, the Elder Brother urged him to go and swear his sword to the new king. He was by no means a hermit in the making, so he'd better go and make true use of his life. 

A new King, young, handsome, gallant, educated… How everyone praised him. Sandor knew better than that. The people needed a rescuer image, let them have it. He hardly cared if Aegon would be a second Joffrey. 

Or he thought he hardly cared. 

He caught up with Aegon's followers in the Vale already, and the first people he saw by the young king's side were Tyrion Lannister and the little bird. The little bird. Alive. 

Before lifting up the hood that hid his face, he ordered himself to stay calm. He wasn't a knight from her childish songs. She won't fall into his arms. The dwarf was more undeserving of her than most, still, at least he wasn't a beast like Sandor. 

Only fools want to be romantic. 

But as he saw a hesitant smile blossoming on her face as she recognized him, he knew he would never get any wiser. 

The little bird tried to chirp to him. He made his usual barking responses to make her see reason. She wasn't getting much wiser, either. Still considering him her gallant savior. Went as far as telling the whole of Aegon's court about the bread riots. The Targaryen youth instantly declared Sandor one of his Kingsguard. 

Only after an hour or so, already clad in a new white cloak and utterly bored, did Sandor hear Sansa addressed as "Lady Stark". 

Stark.

Not Lannister. 

As night drew on, the dwarf and the little bird went in completely different directions. 

They had annulled the marriage, it dawned on Sandor. 

Despite all his constant mental self-drilling, he hoped again. A silly, a crazy hope. An never-to-come-true one. Any sane man could see that. 

So Sandor began to doubt not only his reason, but his very sanity when the little bird begged Aegon to name him her sworn shield. Which the king did, somewhat surprised, but without questions. 

He thought it another of his feverish dreams when in the evening she came to sing for him. Sing that damned ballad of Florian and Jonquil. She laid her hand on his, and her voice rang quietly in his ear. 

A very fitting song, he thought bitterly, feeling something in him break at the sweet sound. A fool and his cunt, exactly the story for Sandor Clegane, the greatest fool of all. 

The song ended, but the bird chirped on. She asked him where he had been, and didn't let him rest until he told her the full story. 

"How you have suffered," she whispered then. Sandor thought she had tears in her eyes. _Idiot, it's the moonlight. You see only what you want to see._

She came to sit by his side every evening since that one, singing to him, talking, sometimes silently watching him. She recounted the story of her own fortunes and misfortunes since Blackwater, and he felt like a monster for having abandoned her. 

On the tenth evening, before giving her a chance to speak, he rasped angrily:

"Why do you keep coming to me like this? Eager to give a dog an extra bone?"

"You're not a dog anymore, you said so yourself," Sansa said. Her eyes looked at him with determination. 

"You didn't answer me," he snapped back. "You have a lot of pretty _knights_ , starting with Aegon himself, at your feet. You should be happy with it, little bird, and leave me in peace."

"Do you want to be left in peace?"

He remained silent, then grunted:

"I don't want your pity. Give it to your former husband if you feel so benevolent, I'd wager he'll be happy."

"If I had no more than pity to offer you, do you think I would have come?" now he was positive there _were_ tears. Without warning, she crushed her lips to his.

She. Herself. 

More fool her, then. 

Sandor wanted to tell her so, to warn her against such carelessness – but she kissed him deeper, one hand cupping his good cheek, another one fumbling with the fastenings of her dress, and he knew he wouldn't be able to enunciate a single word of protest. 

As he carried her to the bed, she smiled and chirped. Subconsciously he waited for her to realize her stupidity and recklessness, to shrink away from his harsh kisses and calloused fingers, but there was nothing like this. The little bird only drew him closer with every moment. He waited for her to weep as her maidenhead broke. She did, but not as he expected. 

"I've been waiting for you to make the first step, Sandor," she cried, grasping his hands. "All these days. I didn't want us to lay together before being married, but finally I r-realized I won't get a proper proposal from you. So I had to take matters into my hands."

"Little bird, you never cease to amaze me. I'm not more worthy of you than the dwarf."

"Stop talking nonsense," she moaned. "You're worthier than anyone."

They were wed a week later. All in a hurry, thanks to the little bird's fretting over propriety. But everything was as needed, the cloaks, the vows, all the thousands of details. Tyrion giving Sansa away, due to the absence of anyone more fitting. Singers, with their romantic ballads. 

Only fools want to be romantic in the Seven Kingdoms. 

Sandor looked at his lovely wife. 

He was a romantic fool, officially, and bloody proud of it.


End file.
